Cruel Summer (8 page)

Pippa vibed on the energy of the crowd, proudly holding herself up before the feasting night eyes. Her covered breasts canopied over them. Suddenly, she was overcome by the strangest feeling that this wasn’t her playing exhibitionist on the bar. It was a fantasy, an image, a persona, something that could be clicked on and off whenever she wanted. She knew that. And the realization gave her an erotic charge. Because she was in control…she was powerful.

To prove it, Pippa lifted her dress just high enough to reveal the pure white silk of her panties. Hooking a finger into the elastic didn’t just tease the dumb lads sweating her every move. It
killed
them.

Max was on life support.

Tommy Lee was dying.

And the man who reached up to slip a hundred-dollar bill under the band of her panties was six feet under.

But as she slayed the men beneath her, Pippa had never felt so alive.

V
anity woke up feeling awful. Her head was pounding, her face was burdened with makeup from two nights ago, and, amazingly, her body still thrummed (and not in a good way) with sexual aftershocks from the interlude with J.J.

Oh, God, why had she allowed herself to be used that way? It was the same cycle repeating itself. While in the moment, hooking up seemed like the fun thing to do. But the hours that followed were a different story altogether. Because that’s when she felt like a dumb slut.

With a sudden, anxiety-fueled alert, Vanity rose up and scrambled for her Sidekick II. The abrupt movement sent her reeling. Still, she soldiered on, jabbing at the keyboard to ignore Mimi’s message and speed dial Dr. Cleo Parker’s office. As always, it rang straight to voicemail.

“Dr. Parker, this is Vanity.” Her voice sounded late-night hoarse. So obviously the result of brutal partying and subsequent crashing, especially since the clock was about to tick over to noon. “I’m running late, but I’ll be there.”

She dressed quickly, the same People’s Liberation jeans from two days ago, a white ribbed cotton tank, and a lightweight, coral-colored Juicy Couture hoodie. There was no time to shower, to wash her face, or to even attempt camouflaging the wild life damage of the last thirty-six hours. All Vanity could do was simply brush her teeth to rid her taste buds of that horrible trench mouth sensation.

She dashed madly out of her bedroom, realizing with a panic that flooring it to Dr. Parker’s office—assuming no traffic—would get her there with only twenty minutes left to go on their scheduled session.

As Vanity tore out of the house, she passed Mercedes and Gunnar. They were jumping up and down to a concert DVD of the children’s music group Hi-Five. She gave them a vague wave, ignored Lala completely, and made a beeline for the garage.

A quick turn of the SmartKey and her Capri-blue Mercedes SL500 Roadster purred to life. Seconds later, the stereo blew up, rocking her solar plexus. It was still set on party volume. But she let it stay there, needing some noise to crash into her head and shake loose the fog of the Ambien pills that had knocked her into a comalike sleep that lasted a full day.

XM Radio ruled. Vanity kept her tuner perpetually locked onto Channel 202, High Voltage, which carried
The Opie and Anthony Show,
a take-no-prisoners raunchy comedyfest with the hosts and their sidekick, comedian Jim Norton.

Any subject was fair game to these guys, and the nonstop banter—blisteringly profane and shockingly sexual—never failed to leave Vanity in a jaw-dropping state of disbelief. Howard Stern was so over. Opie and Anthony were the new destroyers of good taste in America.

At the press of a button, the convertible top went down. Vanity cruised the back roads, then opened up the engine to race along Ocean Drive. The sun blazed like an angry ball of fire. Even the sea-salt breeze couldn’t provide relief. Beads of sweat began to form between her shoulder blades, and a little damp patch had already pooled between her breasts.

But Vanity couldn’t blame the Miami summer. Not when she was still bleeding tequila from her pores. The odor sickened her. God, she felt like a nasty, smelly whore. What a way to start the day. Healthy living. Good times. Yeah, right.

Her spirits were buoyed somewhat by the radio show. Vanity cackled as Jim Norton went on a ferocious rant about fat girls. It was cruel and inhuman…but it was still funny as hell. This made her wonder if she might be part of that new breed of young woman—the female chauvinist pig, the kind who sees
Girls Gone Wild
antics as acts of empowerment, the kind who makes boys blush in bars when she tells a joke dirtier than theirs.

Glancing up, Vanity noticed a group of pelicans swooping across the royal blue sky in perfect fighter plane formation. If only she could join them. Go wherever they were going. How blissful that would be. To fly away on the ultimate escape.

She barely heard the ring of her cellular over the hilarious shock jock / frat boy bullshit. Twisting down the volume, she checked the screen. It was Mimi. And no doubt a very pissed-off Mimi.

Reluctantly, Vanity picked up. “Hello?”

“What the
hell
is going on?” Mimi demanded. “I called you a million times yesterday. The Sony people are furious. I can’t believe you. Katee K’s party had massive coverage, you never showed up, and now I’m hearing that you got drunk at the Surfcomber and went upstairs with Jayson James!”

Hearing the gory details out loud brought on a quick and palpable shame. Vanity could actually feel it, as hot as the sun on her face. How could she explain herself ? She’d done something stupid. And for reasons that were more stupid. At this moment, silence seemed like the best response.

Mimi sighed the sigh of the irritated. “Can’t you see that I’m on a business call?” she shrieked. “Work on my ass, okay?”

Vanity laughed a little. “Where are you?”

“Getting an airbrush tan,” Mimi snapped. “Listen to me. Jayson James is
not
in your league. His career is going down the crapper. The guy is a total loser. Everybody knows that his bulge was stuffed for the Hilfiger ads, and now everybody’s over him. Come on! If you want to go slumming, just hook up with one of the hot guys from
The Real World.
I can’t promise that you won’t get chlamydia, but at least you’d be associating with the kind of pseudo-celebrity garbage that might make an interesting photo op.”

Suddenly, Vanity thought of Dante. This brought a secret smile to her lips. Hmm. What would Mimi think about him? If a semifamous male model was incurring her wrath now, then she would definitely go ballistic over Dante’s credentials—son of a housekeeper, swim coach to little tots, wannabe rapper. Oh, yes. Mimi Blair would
die
over that résumé.

“Enough of that,” Mimi went on. “We all make mistakes. I slept with a Backstreet Boy once. Shoot me.”

Vanity laughed. “I didn’t know that. Which one?”

“I’ll never tell. But let’s just say I figured things out quicker than Paris Hilton did. Okay, on to business.
InStyle
wants you for a sidebar feature on what’s inside your purse.”

“Seriously?”

“I know it sounds retarded, but they’ve budgeted a location photo shoot, and the interview is just a ten-minute phoner.”

“Well, I better change handbags,” Vanity said. “The one with me right now has my thong from the other night inside it.”

“Yes, bitch.
Please
change purses. I’ll call you with the details.” Mimi signed off.

Vanity punched the accelerator as she turned onto Michigan Avenue, screeching into the private parking deck at 1680. Dr. Cleo Parker owned space on the top floor at this address, one of the newest and most expensive office towers in South Beach.

At the insistence of her father, Vanity had been seeing Dr. Parker once a week for the last six months. In the beginning, she bitterly resented being forced to go. First, why would he suddenly believe that she needed a psychiatrist? Did Simon St. John think she was crazy? And second, the whole idea just seemed like another lazy attempt at outsourcing his role as a parent. Basically, the man had neither the time nor the interest in dealing with the emotional minefields that went along with raising a teenage daughter. So why not farm her out to some shrink?

No matter her initial wariness, Vanity quickly realized that therapy was something she should’ve sought out long before. Finally, she had a place to be heard. Dr. Parker actually listened to her problems and fears and dreams and desires—without standing in judgment (as her father so often did) or interrupting to blather on about her own issues (as was the case with so many friends).

Vanity’s hour with Dr. Parker was about Vanity. Exclusively. And no aspect of her celebrity or family wealth impressed the therapist. If anything, during the course of a session, Vanity’s most fame game-worthy points of reference merely drew blank stares from the woman.

But that’s not to say that Dr. Parker was clueless. Quite the contrary. Her bullshit detector was a finely tuned instrument of such drop-dead accuracy that Vanity couldn’t get away with anything. Not even the slightest attempts at deception or avoidance. And if she tried, Dr. Parker would call her out on it every time.

For this reason, the elevator rides up to her office stirred up the butterflies in her stomach. Intense therapy was a frightening gauntlet. It meant uncovering the ugliest demons and confronting them head-on. Even now, half a year into the journey, Vanity found herself fighting a private war whenever she darkened the doorway of Dr. Parker’s inner sanctum. How deep would the psychiatrist encourage her to go today? And how much would Vanity be willing to reveal? The nagging sense that holding back might render the entire process a waste of time always prodded her to share more.

She stepped into the reception area and paced the floor, anxiously flipping through the new issue of
Architectural Digest
but taking in none of the content. It was merely something to do.

Absently, she gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows onto Lincoln Road. Vanity’s guts were knotted. She tapped out a nervous rhythm with one foot. God, she couldn’t shake that filthy feeling. Right now she would be willing to crawl two miles over broken glass for a shower.

She slipped into one of the glossy black Louis Ghost chairs and tried to relax. It struck Vanity as odd that Dr. Parker’s décor was so modern—the sleek Philippe Starck furniture, the bold color accent pieces, the Andy Warhol original on the wall. The latter was one of the artist’s famous Marilyn Monroe portraits. How appropriate. The tragic star’s reliance on psychotherapy had become the stuff of Hollywood legend.

Staring at the painting, Vanity’s mind shot into hyperdrive on all things Monroe—her sad childhood, her difficulty forming female friendships that lasted, her powerful sexuality and the way people used her for it, her endless problems with men, and, ultimately, her early death. There were disturbing similarities between the girl in the chair and the woman on the wall. Suddenly, a voice inside Vanity’s head asked quite clearly, Could I end up like that?

The door to Dr. Cleo Parker’s inner office opened, and she stood there beaming a welcoming smile. “Hello, Vanity.” Her voice was soft and comforting. She was a tiny woman—barely five feet tall—with a yoga addict’s body and short black hair speckled with hints of gray that she didn’t bother to hide by making frequent trips to a colorist.

“I’m sorry,” Vanity said as she stepped inside the dimly lit room. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this late before.”

“It’s okay,” Dr. Parker said soothingly. “My one o’clock appointment canceled, so we’re fine on time.” She closed the door behind her.

Vanity waited for the cue.

Dr. Parker expanded her arms.

Vanity moved in to accept her embrace. It was a long, warm, nurturing, maternal hug. She got one at the beginning of her session, and she got one at the end. Sometimes she felt like it was the most healing aspect of showing up each week.

The truth was, simple affection often felt alien to Vanity. Her mother had always been aloof, more concerned about her favorite substance of the moment than her own daughter. And even though Simon St. John used to make Vanity feel adored with smothering hugs and silly kisses, all those displays had ceased to exist years ago, around the same time that other men began to take notice of her beauty and budding sexuality. Almost overnight, she went from daddy’s little girl to stranger, lucky to get so much as an awkward one-arm embrace around the shoulder. This made Vanity feel dirty, and it triggered a pattern of seeking out affection on any terms…and often settling for the wrong kind.

Bottom line: Guys wanting sex would never fill the void for a girl missing something in her life. God, it seemed so ridiculously simple. If you were longing to feel loved, then stay away from horny jerks. Because time after time, they would only leave you feeling worse. Vanity knew this. J.J. was proof positive. To a lesser degree, Max was, too. And there had been others. So why didn’t she know better by now?

As was the custom, Dr. Parker broke the embrace, took possession of Vanity’s hands, and gazed directly into her eyes while asking, “How are you?”

“Terrible,” Vanity admitted. She took her position on the Eames sofa, sinking into the quilted black leather.

Dr. Parker settled in opposite her. “Why do you say that?”

Vanity sighed. For the moment, she just answered the question with a diffident shrug.

“You reek of alcohol,” Dr. Parker said. It was more matter-of-fact observation than character judgment. “And it doesn’t appear that you’ve showered. Maybe we should start with where you were last night.”

Vanity inspected her nails and made a mental note to schedule a manicure. “Sleeping. But the other night I went out with J.J.”

“You’ve seen him before, right?” Dr. Parker inquired.

Vanity nodded.

“He’s the model?”

“Yeah, that’s him.” She paused a beat. “We went to a party at a hotel. It was lame. I ended up drinking a lot. Then he took me up to his room. He smokes pot. I don’t, but I got stoned from just being in the same space. One thing led to another, and we had sex. When I woke up the next morning, he was gone. So I went home to crash.”